Лесли Чартерис - The Saint

The two giant video screens were filled with inflammatory Oktober Party propaganda, and Red Square itself was crowded with the irate, the curious, and the soon-to-be condemned.

International news correspondents from the major networks cupped their ears and rattled details into their open microphones, bringing every rumor and unconfirmed charge to their world-wide audiences.

“In an emergency measure approved by the Russian Senate, all documents in President Karpov’s Kremlin office have been seized,” declared CCI’s Anea Bergen, beating CNN’s Jan Sharp and UPN’s Chet Rogers to the story by a full fifteen seconds.

Rogers, not to be outdone, was the first to detail the spectacular arrival of Ivan Tretiak.

“Not since Lenin’s arrival at Finlandia Station,” intoned the seasoned reporter, “has such a transformative leader made such an auspicious entrance.”

Tretiak, standing victorious atop a tank turret, greeted the cheering crowd. Every gesture and expression was amplified and exaggerated by the state-of-the-art sound system and diamond-bright video screens.

If the previous Tretiak rallies were equal to rock concerts, this one was pure theater. Tretiak may have ranted against the evils of Hollywood, but this Red Square production — complete with cast, sets, props, lighting, heroes, and villains — was as lavish as any celluloid adventure.

“Friends! Countrymen! Russians! ”

The crowd screamed approval.

“You’ve no doubt heard of this morning’s Senate-ordered inquiry into the shocking affairs of President Karpov,” began Tretiak, “and recovered from his secret files, locked within his private safe...” On cue a spotlight hit the actual safe — an important visual aid adding further authenticity to Tretiak’s dramatic presentation.

“The secret documents, soon to be published for all to read, prove the evil profiteer Karpov was about to squander over forty trillion of our precious Russian rubles in a crooked scheme to save his corrupt hide!”

The crowd bellowed like electric bulls, and a spot-light illuminated a second platform that looked like a gallows. On the platform, standing tall and retaining his dignity, was President Karpov.

Another roar swelled in the crowd’s throat, impressed and excited by Tretiak’s multimedia approach to seizing power by brazen will.

Another spotlight splashed its light on the platform, highlighting none other than Simon Templar.

“To add insult, Karpov was going to pay a king’s ransom to this international criminal! ”

Tretiak pointed dramatically at the Saint while the video screens showed the surveillance photo of Templar fleeing through the corridor of Tretiak Industries.

“Yes! There he is, running for his life after an attempted robbery right here in Moscow! International police are searching everywhere for him, but we’ve captured him — the notorious Simon Templar, alias the Saint — thief, terrorist, scoundrel, and a man who, this very evening, was found in President Karpov’s bedroom!”

The crowd had some difficulty visualizing the scene as implied by Tretiak, but they managed to hiss, boo, and hurl verbal insults.

Watching the telecast inside the American Embassy, Emma sat mesmerized and half-crazed with fear for Simon’s safety.

Templar, mindful of the theatrical element of the presentation, offered a polite and efficient stage bow to the audience. He followed that with a warm smile and friendly wave.

Tretiak almost choked.

“This criminal and your corrupt president were going to bankrupt our national treasury!” he yelled in mock astonishment. “And for what? Let me show you!”

Yet another spotlight came to life, hitting the pièce de résistance — the bedraggled array of beakers, tubes, and a lightbulb from Botvin’s lab, now displayed on the back of a flatbed truck.

“Look! Look and laugh... laugh to keep from crying.” Tretiak was laying it on with a trowel. “This sad science project was supposed to rescue Russia from a frigid, freezing death. Do you deny this, Mr. Karpov?”

Karpov threw a glance at Templar, then responded with resonant self-assurance.

“Absolutely not! I proudly admit it!”

This was not the answer Tretiak expected, and he felt a sudden unease in the pit of his stomach.

The crowd looked from Tretiak to Karpov, from Karpov to Tretiak, but no one was looking at Simon Templar. He leaned his head down to his chest and spoke into the third button of his guard uniform.

“Send the signal — do it now!”

Miles away in Tretiak’s mansion. Dr. Lev Botvin sent a remote activation signal via microwave transmission. In response, the cold fusion apparatus slowly came to life, setting chemicals bubbling in their beakers.

“Sitting stupidly on that truck,” continued Tretiak, regaining his authoritative demeanor, “is a fairy tale called cold fusion. You pass electrical current into the apparatus and there is supposed to be a chemical reaction. But just watch! It is supposed to heat this huge, cold, continent — but it can’t even light up a measly lightbulb!”

He paused so as to not step on the audience’s outburst of laughter. The laugh did not come. Instead, there was a mass murmur.

What the audience could see, and Tretiak could not, was the lightbulb beginning to glow.

The would-be dictator continued his anti-West diatribe.

“From the same, sick culture that gave us crack, unemployment, AIDS, gangster rap...” Tretiak was fighting to regain his rhythm, but he had already lost his audience to the astonishing image on the screen — the bulb glowing brighter, hotter. The flatbed truck began to sag, its tires melting under the intense heat of cold fusion.

The crowd surged forward as the bulb reached critical mass, the truck’s windows shattered, and a magnificent white-hot column erupted into the dark night sky like a true beacon of hope.

The visuals were astonishing.

Tretiak, stunned, felt as if he were shrinking.

The crowd was amazed, amused, aghast, agog. Children were hoisted onto adult shoulders to witness this modem miracle of power and light, and several entrepreneurial members of the audience wished they had made arrangements for concession rights.

“It works! Karpov’s cold fusion works!” The cry came from the crowd, repeated and rephrased again and again with mounting enthusiasm.

“The light gives off heat!”

Templar winked at Karpov.

“Miracle number one,” said the Saint slyly.

Back at the American Embassy, the now-crowded room erupted in cheers. Emma wept for joy.

Three hundred thousand Muscovites stared at an exceedingly nervous Ivan Tretiak.

“All right, I grant that it seems to work to some extent... but who knows whether in the long run, the cost outweighs...”

No one was listening anymore. All attention reverted back to the glorious column of light, growing taller and brighter.

The crowd, caught up in a carnival mood, began to shout its allegiance to Karpov, their beloved president.

“Karpov! Karpov! Karpov!”

Then they said it again.

“Kar-pov! Kar-pov! Kar-pov!”

General Sklarov, rapidly assessing his future prospects in the Russian military as decidedly dim, hastily approached his president.

“A thousand apologies, Mr. President, there was obviously a miscommunication somewhere in the chain of command. I intend to conduct a strenuous inquiry right away.”

“Really? From where — prison?”

Sklarov was afraid Karpov would say something like that, and he was not tremendously surprised to find his fears were well founded. He decided it was best to ignore Karpov’s comment and press on patriotically.

“We’ll get that traitor, Mr. President,” insisted Sklarov, and he began waving signals to his troops.